Foundling

by Cornish, D. M.

  “I gave you your chance, boy!” Europe was suddenly lit with a powerful yet suppressed rage. “If you’re going to dash it with saucy nonsense, then this is where we part ways!” She turned on her heel as if to leave, coat hems swirling.

  “I-fell-off-a-boat-bound-for-High-Vesting-and-swam-ashore!” Rossamünd yelped in one frightened breath. He continued almost as quickly. “And my name really is Rossamünd, and I know it’s not the right kind of name for a lad but I was given it while I was too young to argue and now it is written in the ledger and there is no going back on that . . .”

  Europe stood still, cocked her head and made a wry face.

  “I am a book child—a foundling—and I’m supposed to be in High Vesting so I can start my job and now I’m probably lost and I’ve got no water to drink and . . . and . . .” Rossamünd trembled on that awful verge where tears begin and poise is lost.What is more, he had revealed more about himself than he had intended. He was sure that if Fransitart could see him now, his old dormitory master would be shaking his head in dismay.

  “I see.” The fulgar pondered for a moment. “You have very fine proofing for a foundling, little man. Did you happen to steal it?”

  “No, ma’am!” Rossamünd was simultaneously startled and offended.

  The fulgar shrugged. “Either way, maybe I can be of help to you after all. If it is water you need, there is plenty on the carriage.” She paused sagely, then smiled an oddly cheeky smile. “I could even do as much as cart you to High Vesting, if you would like, though you will have to join me as I work. What do you think, Licurius? Shall we aid this poor, lost, well-dressed book child? You never know, with your poor eyesight an extra pair of peepers could be handy on our way.”

  Licurius nodded just once.

  “There you go!” Europe kept grinning in mild triumph.

  So they climbed into the landaulet, all three—Licurius handing his mistress aboard—and set off down the Vestiweg once more. Rossamünd’s thoughts sang happily as he drank his fill of water and the flat fields rocked by. Whatever anyone else said, he thought lahzars were the finest folk he had ever met.

  7

  SORROW AT THE BRINDLESTOW BRIDGE

  fuse (noun) six- to twelve-foot pole of cane or wand-wood, tightly coiled along its entire length with copper wire and capped with copper, brass or iron fulgurite; the fuse is the longer of the fulgaris—the weapons used by fulgars. The shorter fulgaris is called the stage. A fuse extends the reach of fulgars, allowing them to deliver their deadly jolts while staying out of reach themselves.

  IT was supremely comfortable in the landaulet: the seats were pliant and easing, the upholstery and trimmings all wrapped in thick, glossy leather of a scarlet almost as rich as Europe’s sumptuous frock coat. And there was indeed as much clean water as Rossamünd needed, stored in black lacquered panniers hanging from the back of the carriage. There were also several bottles of claret, of a rather cheap variety, so Europe informed him, mixed with apple pulp, “and not meant for small boys!” All in all, he thought it a fine way to make the rest of his way to High Vesting.

  Not long into the journey, however, they crossed over a small wooden platform under which bubbled a happily babbling runnel, probably a drain for the fields. It was enough water to quench any thirst and not so far down the road that Rossamünd would have perished before he found it. This really struck him: had he pushed on, he might have been all right on his own after all. He thought life’s twistings very odd.

  Europe chatted gaily at first. She talked about the weather and then about the strange dress-sense of the women from the Considine, the Emperor’s second capital far away south. She talked on and on about a great deal more, usually about herself: great conquests of fearsome nickers and even greater conquests of certain “stupid, wealthy dolts,” as she called them—whatever that meant. Rossamünd found it all rather hard to follow, but nodded as politely and as attentively as he could. While she talked, she offered him expensive foods in an elaborately offhand manner, dainty morsels the likes of which he had only ever seen in the quality street confectioners of Boschenberg. There were nibbles of many types of nut; strips of rare cured meats—gazelle, ibex, harp seal—delicately flavored with expensive spices; and sachets of dried fruits—peaches and strange yellow triangles she called “pineapple” which tasted so oddly and delightfully sweet he could not stop picking at them; and a small profusion of little bruised things. He asked what these were.

  “Those? Oh, they’re whortleberries,” she said simply, but with that one statement Rossamünd’s eyes went wide. How rich could one person be! Whortleberries were the absolute king of way foods: one little dried berry, though not able to relieve the pangs of hunger, could give a full-grown man energy for almost a whole day. They grew in very remote and threwdish—haunted—places and their cultivation and trade were vigilantly guarded. All this made them astoundingly expensive, but here, now, in this luxurious landaulet, was a small fortune’s worth.

  “May I try one?” he asked timidly.

  Europe gave him an odd look. “Certainly. They’re there for the eating—though not too many, mind, or the top of your head might blow off as you run giggling down the road.”

  He took just one and examined it closely. It was a withered berry no bigger than the fingernail of his little finger, the color of a plum gone bad. Very unimpressive. He plopped it quickly in his mouth. It tasted flat and disappointingly bland, but when he swallowed, a tingling started in his belly and a happy, lively warmth spread to the top of his head. Rossamünd blinked and grinned. He changed his mind and thought it the nicest thing he had ever eaten. With this new pulse of energy and surge of well-being he started to fidget and shift about in his seat.

  Europe watched his antics with amusement. “Works wonderfully well, does it not?” she observed.

  “Aye, ma’am! I reckon I could run all the way to High Vesting and back!” he enthused.

  “Yes, well . . .” Her expression became a little mocking. “Let us not go too far.”

  This was a little deflating, but the whortleberry made Rossamünd’s spirits so high he was not downhearted for long. Forgetting himself a little, he began to poke about the interior of the carriage, prodding at the upholstery. On the seat beside him was a plain-looking box—a case really, quite large and long and flat and lacquered a glistening black. Rossamünd went to pat its smooth surface, but pulled his hand away quickly as he felt a faint, queasy dread emanating from within it.

  Europe quickly became stern. “Nothing in there, little sneak!”

  She took up this box and poked it away between her and the side wall of the landaulet. “Didn’t they tell you at your bookhouse that curious eyes rot in their sockets and curious fingers wither to their knuckles?”

  After this the lady fulgar became quiet and ignored Rossamünd, quickly growing sullen and staring at the distant windmills and featureless land, her chin cupped in hand, elbow propped on knee. “I hate this place . . .” she muttered. This was all she said for quite a long time.

  Rossamünd had no idea what to do, and sat perplexed. Eventually he offered the lahzar one of her own whortleberries, thinking this might cheer her, but she just looked at it blankly, frowned at him and went back to her listless maundering. Rossamünd became suddenly and painfully aware of the strangeness of his surroundings and of the two people with whom he shared the carriage. He sat very still and very, very quiet.

  Later that day it rained, and this seemed to improve Europe’s mood considerably. “This is more like it,” she grinned. Sitting up straighter, she called to Licurius, “Fighting weather, hey, Box-face! And let there be more of it too!”

  Once more, Rossamünd had no idea what she was talking about. Licurius ignored her as he had ignored the rain—and most everything else, it seemed.

  Europe pulled the broad, bonnetlike canopy up and over them, keeping them and the plush interior dry while Licurius, at the front, was left to soak as he stoically dictated the landaulet’s course
. This made Rossamünd uneasy and unhappy, reminding him of the times when Madam Opera bullied and badgered dear Verline. He did not understand why one person should have all that he or she needed and dictate to others what they have or have not.

  Even with the fulgar’s rapid lift in spirits they continued the rest of that day’s journey in silence and in the rain, Rossamünd taking the opportunity to read his already well-thumbed almanac. It said very little about the region they were in except that it was called the Sough, that it was very fertile and that it was famous for its lettuces and strawberries, though he had so far seen few of either. In the early evening, when they stopped for the night, it was still showering. Gaps in the cloud showed the glorious golden orange of the sun’s late light reflected off enormous cumulous columns. In the strange yellow gloom Licurius tended to the pony, hobbling it and attaching a feed bag to its bridle. He then set small cones of repellent in a circle about their temporary camp, scratching strange marks in the soil with a stick at the intervals between each cone. He set a modest fire with wood they carried with them and, when it was burning merrily, put some kind of small cauldron in its midst. All this done, the leer finally prepared his bed beneath the landaulet.

  From under the canopy, with the rain going patter, patter upon it, Europe called softly to him, “I’ll be wanting the brew in about twenty minutes, I think, but be sure it has mixed well and is the right temperature.”

  With a quick, resentful glare at Rossamünd she took out the nondescript black box that had caused such tension earlier and handed it almost secretively to Licurius. Then she lit an oil lamp with deft strokes of a flint and steel, and, opening a compartment beneath her seat, pulled out a great clothbound book. Producing a pencil, she began to scratch and scrawl in the book, humming or tch-tch-ing in turn. After a while she looked up sharply and quizzed Rossamünd flatly, “You know what I am, don’t you, child?” She waggled the end of her pencil in the vicinity of her left brow, indicating the small blue outline of the fulgar’s diamond above it. “What this means?”

  Rossamünd had no idea what to say. “I uh . . . uh . . .” He suddenly felt embarrassed to talk about her occupation, as though it was a private, even a shameful thing. In the end he nodded. Her expectant gaze was even more terrible than Madam Opera’s.

  “And what is that?” she persisted.

  Rossamünd flushed and wished he was a thousand miles elsewhere. “You’re a lahzar,” he mumbled.

  “I’m a what?”

  Rossamünd almost rolled his eyes, but thought better of it. “A fulgar—a monster-fighter. You make sparks and lightning.”

  Europe gave a chuckle, then sat back, her chin stuck out pompously. “I prefer the name teratologist or, if one must be vulgar, pugnator. But yes, my boy, you have it in two. No doubt you have heard of my kind—how we are spooky, how we are scary, how you common folk couldn’t live without us? Hmm? Well, it’s all true, and worse. Mine is a life of violence. Would you like a life of violence, little man?”

  Rossamünd shook his head cautiously.

  “What about a life of adventure, then? Is that where you’re bound? To begin some adventurous life in High Vesting?”

  The boy thought for a moment, bowing his head under her beady hazel-brown gaze, and eventually shrugged.

  “Hmph!” Europe pursed her lips. “What I’d like to know is this: when does adventure stop and violence begin? Answer me that and we’ll both be wiser.”

  Fransitart had been right after all: lahzars were strange and discomfiting folk. Rossamünd regretted accepting this one’s assistance. Once more he had no real idea of what she was talking about, and certainly no idea how to reply.

  At that moment Licurius stepped up holding a pewter dish full of what looked like steaming black oil, gluggy and evil-smelling. The foundling almost gagged at the stink of the stuff, but Europe put down her large book, took the dish gratefully and drank the filthy contents in a manner that Madam Opera would have declared sternly was “very unladylike!” A tingle of disgust shivered down Rossamünd’s ribs as the fulgar drained the dregs and sighed a contented sigh.

  “Many times better,” she smiled, showing teeth scummed with black as she handed the dish back to the ever-patient Licurius. She took out her crow’s claw hair-tine and comb, letting silken, chestnut locks free; then she dimmed the lantern, lay back, wrapped herself in a blanket and without another word fell asleep.

  It was then that another stench assaulted Rossamünd’s senses: the leer had lit the cones of repellent, and their exotic fumes were now drifting over the camp. It was like nothing Rossamünd had ever encountered before and it made him feel wretched. His head began to pound and his very soul was gripped by an urgency to flee. His discomfort must have shown, for he was sure Licurius was regarding him closely beneath that blank box of a face. Wrapping his scarf about his nose and throat as if to keep out the cold, but rather to muffle the reek, Rossamünd tried to show that nothing was wrong. Nevertheless the leer paused and leaned closer.

  The boy was sure he heard sniffing: the faint but definite snuffling of smells.

  Then, for the first time since their meeting, the leer spoke. “Do you fare well, boy?” The voice came as a wheezing, hissing whisper, strangely unmuffled despite the impediment of the sthenicon. “You look like you’ve had a nasty turn there. All’s well, is it? D’ye not like the stink of our potives?”

  Feeling a greater threat under the blank gaze of this man than in the manic ways of the fulgar, Rossamünd cowered in his muffle. He did not know whether to nod or shake his head, and just wobbled it in circles vigorously.

  “You smell funny to me. Did you know that? Wheeze . . . you smell funny to me . . .” The leer leaned yet closer. “Answer, boy, or do you want of a man’s courage with such a pretty name?”

  Momentarily speechless, the foundling blinked several times, completely baffled. What harm is there in smelling funny? “I su . . . suppose I do, sir,” he started. “I haven’t had a bath for well over a week now. I reckon the river has made it worse.”

  “Hiss! I know river-ssmell, upssstart,” Licurius returned, shaking with inexplicable rage. “And unwashed bodiess too. You are neither of thesse.You ssmell wrong! Wheeze . . .”

  “I . . .” When would this fellow just leave him alone? Who cared how he smelled? For the first time since he had left the foundlingery, Rossamünd thought about the knife Fransitart had given him, still in its scabbard at the end of his baldric, thought whether he might be forced to produce it as an aid to his defense. What a strange and terrible notion—cudgels were one thing, but knives and other slitting-slicing tools quite another. “Master Fransitart told me that people from different cities eat different foods, that each would make them smell funny to other folk.”

  “Of courssse.” The leer stroked his throat with a hand gloved in black velvet. He sounded less than convinced.

  Europe shifted restlessly, then turned to her side and intervened with a soft voice as she did so. “Leave him be, Licurius. Everyone has their secrets. Perhaps he should ask you, oh great leer, about a certain Frestonian girl . . .”

  At this Licurius stepped back and away from Rossamünd with an odd gurgle, to the boy’s great relief. Shortly after, the leer doused the fire, crept to his cradle beneath the landaulet and bothered the boy no more. Even so, eyes wide in the dark, Rossamünd stayed awake for a long time, well into the small hours, feeling more unsafe than he ever had when he had bunked by himself in the haystack or the boxthorn. Not even the happy appearance of Phoebë as nighttime clouds blew away east cheered him.

  He felt terribly alone.

  The next day, the leer paid Rossamünd no more mind than he had at any other time other than the bizarre bedtime incident last night. After another draft of that black ichor had been brewed for Europe, and the foundling had wandered briefly for a relieving stroll, they were on their way again into a frigid fog. By midmorning the vapors cleared and the country began changing. The fields became smaller and fewer and t
he land rockier, sloping upward ever more until they found themselves on the stony, uncultivated heights before a forested valley. This depression was filled with a great wood of evergreen beeches and stately pines, and into it the road now descended. Rain had washed broad ruts into the Vestiweg as it went down the flanks of the valley, creating enough of a hazard that Licurius was obliged to get down from his seat and lead the horse carefully on foot.

  Europe frowned at the poor condition of the road. “Roadway gone to clay, bring two shoes and carry one away,” she sighed, sipping at a glass of claret and sucking on—of all things—a chunk of rock salt. Draining the glass, she looked sidelong at her young passenger and suddenly leaned across, taking his small hands in hers.

  Rossamünd started and pulled back, not knowing what to expect. The lahzar stroked his knuckles absentmindedly, and even though her touch was as soft as Verline’s and her grip gentle, he was very aware that she just might shock him or worse.

  She smiled. “I apologize for my factotum’s behavior last night,” she offered quietly. “He’s a curious fellow, and this serves me well most of the time. Unfortunately it also makes him . . . twitchy, one might say. Pay him no heed—he’s harmless enough.”

  Rossamünd could see how, to a fulgar of such self-confessed might as Europe, Licurius might seem less than threatening. But to this boy, the leer was anything but harmless.

  “Now, very shortly I am going to have some work to do.” Europe released his hands with a pat and sat back. “And you might find it scary enough, but fear not: I have been in business for a great long while now.” She paused and looked heavenward, tapping her lips with a long, elegant finger. “Hmmm, too long perhaps. Nevertheless, you can be assured that you are safe.”

  Rossamünd looked about. “Will there be monsters?” he whispered.

  Europe laughed—a bright, crystalline chortle—as they entered the dark gloom beneath ancient eaves. “My, my, there are always monsters!”